


Gospel

by spookyroan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Murder Husbands, Religious context, allusions to paradise lost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23303104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyroan/pseuds/spookyroan
Summary: During "Wrath of the Lamb", prior to end sequence. Will Graham knows Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper and Hannibal reflects on their friendship's evolution.All characters and context belong to Bryan Fuller and Thomas Harris. I claim mild ownership over their romance in this fic.
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 13





	Gospel

The sound of fingers pressing gently into keys, resonating the sweet prayer of sound from their strings. He coaxed music from this machine, creating sound, designing emotion. Many days he found himself remembering the way fingers would push against his skin, as if there is another him to find behind his lips, his cheeks, his chest. He wanted to be seen, observed in the way one observes art. He wanted these fingers to pull away his flesh, his muscle, his bone. He wanted these fingers to lay waste to him, rendering him nothing but what he has always been. He had never seen what he was, believing that to do so would to behold the face of God. A mirror showing him what he wants to see, the blue eyes belonging to gentle fingers reflecting another man. He did not know if he were a man or a creature. 

He wanted to know what they saw.  _ See? _

Will had come to see Dr. Lecter late at night, as per their usual routine. He would come to talk, Hannibal would sit before him and listen. Tonight was no different. Will had come directly from a crime scene, reeking of filth and decay. He had worn the same flannel, the same terrified expression carved into his features. Hannibal wondered if he’d taken time to sleep, or if he slept at all. He wanted to press his finger tips to those sweat drenched temples, feel the music singing in his mind. How magnificent, how divine, how eloquent. This was their song, composed from the strings of man. These strings had been cut, a finality of Fate, for their melody. Bodies, faces, lives arranged in their minds as notes are arranged by pitch. They wanted to know who sang the loudest, who would rise above the rest as the truth? Hannibal wanted to desperately hear these notes played in Will’s mind, he wondered what he sounded like.

Hannibal had spent months with Will. The second day they’d known of each other, sharing work over a meal of Hannibal’s creation, he’d seen Will’s mind begin to sing. The hood of a piano being lifted, his finger-tips hesitantly pressing against ivory, softly singing into the darkness. The void Will swam through to reach his conclusions, songs no one heard because they did not have the ears to listen. They did not hear his music, they heard Will’s hoarse gasps drenched in fear and sweat and insomnia. They heard the way his voice cracked when he mentioned Abigail, the way his voice softened when Alana was in the room. They heard the way his patience bit back at Crawford. They did not hear who he was with Hannibal, they did not hear this music. It was not theirs, they would not know how to listen. 

They didn’t know when they began to touch. Hannibal’s hand wrapped around the back of Will’s neck, protective and sure. Hannibal hadn’t remembered why they were so close, so alive, in unison. Will was still and unsure. He’d never kissed another man, he’d never wanted to. Hannibal was forbidden to him, a fruit that held his salvation. Hannibal tuned him to the chord of the hunted, he’d understood and listened. Trust was never a prerequisite for their relationship, they did not trust. They knew trust was a construct created to justify retribution, for did God trust man when he placed them in Paradise? A trust so weak, so frail, that a death was demanded to repay what was broken. They did not trust each other like Alana trusted Hannibal to be innocent, like Crawford trusted Will to step away. They did not trust because it was something to be taken away. They allowed themselves to sin, to falter, to be lost together. Together they made music, together they were truth in unison. 

Their lips were hungry. Hunger for closeness, for clarity, for understanding. Seeing. 

\- - - - - - - - - - 

Hannibal had hoisted Will onto his desk, now cleared of all his drawings and paperwork. He’d pressed Will into the hardwood, wondering how much pressure his body could take. He wondered how cleanly a knife would slide against his skin, just as a brush gently caresses paper. He wanted to feel Will melt into him, his hands pressing bruises into Will’s hips as he demanded for more. More. 

They did not speak, they did not need words. For the first time, Will’s gaze met Hannibal’s. He was inexperienced, shy. Hannibal recalled mention of  _ hepatitis B and whether those whites are truly white _ : distractions. When Will looked into those deep, dark eyes, he saw clearly. For the first time, those eyes spoke volumes. Volumes he had overlooked, forgotten about in his rush to find and hunt and find again. He was not meant to read the crows feet, the abundance of thick, European eyelashes, the peculiar shade of maroon, nor the reflection of death hidden beneath. He was not allowed to gaze, he was forced to look. 

To gaze at Hannibal Lecter is to gaze into damnation. He was lost into eyes, those lips, those hands, those arms. He was struggling to ground himself in anything other than the pressure of Hannibal’s body against his, pressing him into the desk.

Hannibal, meanwhile, was relishing the smell of pine and whiskey that soaked Will’s skin. He noted the lack of aftershave, noted the last moment he’d taken to smell Will. Instead he smelled pure and divine Will, the mixture of pheromones and sex building on his temples and beneath his jaw. Hannibal buried himself in the crook of his neck, kissing hungrily. Neither could predict whether Hannibal would bite down or continue to kiss, neither cared. Hannibal was understanding the way that Will’s clothes smell of coffee and linen, but his skin reeked of desperation. Those scents mingled with Will’s breath, drenched in pleas and prayers to  _ God, Hannibal. _

As if God and Hannibal were one in the same, mingled in Will’s mind as mercy and justice. Hannibal, who had taken Alana Bloom to bed as a means of alibi. Hannibal, who had turned murder into art, petulant art for one man’s eyes. A dream, a wish, a prayer. God would not kill these people, God would not elevate sin to the rank of art. God would not savor the way Will whispered Hannibal’s name as a prayer, a promise they made to each other. They would not confess, nor repent for these sins. Hannibal would not beg Alana for forgiveness, she did not deserve it. Every night he wondered how he’d kill her, how he’d bring her to salvation. He’d seen her body and it was plain, barren. He did not see art, and her voice was not music. 

Will let Hannibal take him, drive him to Hell. With every gasp, every repetition of Hannibal’s name on his lips, every kiss, every button undone. He was damned. He knew that the moment he chose to gaze, to look is to see, to gaze is to understand. He understood. 

And all he could hear was soft notes echoing through the sunlight, bouncing off walls that lay witness, finding him alone in Hannibal Lecter’s bed.

**Author's Note:**

> My favorite fandom to write for is Hannigram, which caters to two of my passions: cannibalism references and murder husbands. This is the first work I'm publishing, please feel free to comment. 
> 
> I couldn't quite place this work in the canon timeline, but felt there was enough context to place it post-Hannibal's incarceration.


End file.
